Finally, near the end of our lunch, I asked my niece about the young man whom I had met at Democracy Wall. I told her his sad story.
"Such events were not uncommon," she remarked. "The boy's father was very unwise to reveal his poem, even to friends. Within the Party, many cadres rise and prosper by informing on fellow workers. Everyone should be cautious."
"But it seems so wrong," I replied.
"Your outlook is different," Kangmei said. "We who live here understand. There is freedom only for the old men who exploit the Chinese people."
As we talked more, I learned that my niece is a woman of firm opinions. She possesses a keen, questioning intellect-and I am heartened by it. We promised to meet again after I had seen Wang Bin. august 12.
Today I walked down the Avenue of Eternal Tranquility, toward the western wall of the Forbidden City. I had a notion to visit the palaces, but first I stopped to buy a knitted hat from a vendor named Hong.
I noticed that one of his legs had been removed at the hip. Because of his youthfulness-he appeared about thirty-such a handicap seemed unusual. I asked him if he had been in a bicycle accident, which is common in the city.
Hong smiled and said no, he had lost the leg as a teenager. The year was 1966.
His father was a prominent scientist. One of his colleagues, a Party member, was very jealous. He accused Hong's father of secretly passing scientific papers to pro-Western publications in Taiwan.
The Red Guards came to the scientist's apartment. Hong, who was seventeen and full of fire, took a punch at one of the intruders. The youth was quickly knocked to the floor, and beaten so badly with the butt of a rifle that his leg bones were shattered. His father was put in detention for eighteen months, and was freed only after his accuser was arrested-for lying about the loyalty of another fellow worker.
Hong told me that he bears no ill will toward the Red Guards. I find that difficult to believe.
Later this afternoon, I had a marvelous surprise by the lake at the Summer Palace. I ran into an old friend, Thomas Stratton. He once was a student of mine at St. Edward's, and now teaches art history at a college in New England. Tom is visiting China with a group of art historians and he is understandably eager to break away from the entourage as soon as possible.
I promised him a personal tour of Peking, as soon as I return from Xian. There's some wonderful Qing hung porcelain on display in a state gallery near the Heping. I think we'll stop there first.
Tomorrow is the biggest day of my trip. In the morning, I fly to Xian where I am to meet my brother at eleven sharp. After lunch, we will tour the archaeological site of the tomb of the Emperor Qin.
I'm thrilled about visiting this historical dig, but I'm even more excited about seeing Wang Bin again. He is only a year younger, but history and political fortunes have cast us centuries apart. Even without knowing him, I fear that we will be the inverse of each other. Perhaps not. Perhaps the journey backward to our Chinese childhood is not so great. It is easy to remember little Bin's face as a boy. But it has been fifty years since we were together in my father's home. And, in that time, I have not seen so much as a photograph. His invitation was so unexpected that I didn't know how to respond.
I think it will be a powerful reunion.
Tom Stratton closed his friend's journal and walked thoughtfully back to his hotel.
The words faithfully belonged to David, and reading them freshened Stratton's grief. It was so typical of his old friend, he thought, to be moved more by the people of Peking than its art or scenery. David Wang had not returned for the temples and tombs of China, but for the people like Cheng and Hong. Each day had brought new faces, new chances to learn: What is it really like? What have I missed? Should I have come back sooner?
But David Wang was a circumspect man; not all of what he saw and heard would be recorded in his notebook-of this Stratton was sure. The professor had probably altered the names of the Chinese to protect them from reprisals. He had also carefully refrained from political commentary that could backfire against his brother, the deputy minister.
But the journal ended too abruptly.
It contained no mention of David Wang's trip to Xian, or of his reunion with his brother. Stratton was baffled, for the professor unfailingly wrote in the notebook each night before going to bed. Why-full of such emotion, and dazzled by exotic sights-would David have forsaken this habit while on this most important trip?
Opening the journal again in his room, Stratton flipped to the last written pages. Something caught his eye. He retrieved a metal fingernail file from his luggage and slipped it between the pages, pressing toward the spine of the notebook. The binding easily gave way, and the pages separated in loose stacks.
Stratton ran a finger across the inside borders of the paper. It felt sticky. He held one page to his nose. The glue was pungent, and new. Someone had pried Wang's journal apart, and then glued it back together so it would appear undisturbed. No ragged stubs revealed where the missing pages had been.
It was a professional job, Tom Stratton thought. Almost perfect.
"Every time I see you, you're riding solo," Jim McCarthy said with a cannon laugh. "Your tour group really must be wall-to-wall losers, huh?"
Stratton accepted McCarthy's offer of a bottle of Peking-brewed Coca-Cola.
"Almost like home," the newsman said. "Now where did you want me to take you?"
Stratton said, "The Foreign Languages Institute."
"And what," McCarthy said, "do you plan to do there? Stare at the walls? Pose for pictures with a few soldiers outside the gate? It's a restricted area, baby.
No Yanks allowed. It's definitely not on the tour, yours or anybody else's."
Stratton told McCarthy about David Wang.
"Death by duck, right? That's what Powell said, I bet."
"Yes," Stratton replied. "How did you know?"
"Because the bastard ripped the lead off one of my stories to steal that phrase.
Fucking cretins at State, no imagination. Suppose I should be flattered."
"So there really is such a thing?"
"Sure." McCarthy pried open the Coke on a desk drawer handle and guzzled half.
"Just your basic tourist burnout, really. The Peking roast duck dinner gives it a nice twist, though. I wrote the story two years ago and the stats have held up. Quite a few elderly Americans die every year in the great China adventure, but it's not a trend that gets much publicity. I remember one old geezer who arrived lugging a heavy suitcase and went home inside it."
"Huh?"
"His wife had him cremated and continued the tour-said he would have wanted it that way."
Stratton blanched.
"Hey, Stratton, I don't mean to sound like a total prick about it. I'm sorry about your friend, really I am. But what's it got to do with the Foreign Languages school?"
"David's niece is a student there."
McCarthy whistled. "It's a tough school to get into."
"Her father is Wang Bin, a deputy minister. David's younger brother."
"Right, I remember now."
"The girl saw David shortly before he left for Xian to meet Bin. I want to talk to her, just to make sure everything was all right." Stratton decided not to mention the journal or the passport.
McCarthy said, "I'm not exactly a low-profile character in this town. More like the Jolly Red Giant. With me at your side, you don't stand a fucking prayer of getting in.
"But I tell you what. Go with my driver. He'll take you to the gate and haggle on your behalf. He speaks some English and he's worked miracles for me, but don't get your hopes up. You might have to settle for leaving a note-and then it could be another four weeks before you get an answer. I'm not kidding. Watching this government in action is like watching a bad ballet performed in molasses."